


Consequences of Unmade Decisions

by InsertImaginativeNameHere



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, protect John Constantine 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertImaginativeNameHere/pseuds/InsertImaginativeNameHere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early morning. Zed gets a phonecall from Chas, concerned about John's wellbeing and comes to the millhouse, where she has to come to terms with the idea that John cannot be saved from himself.  It's not an easy thing for her to accept, but she must, and in doing so, let John ruin himself in his latest completely outrageous act of self-destruction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consequences of Unmade Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Been reading Hellblazer lately, took note of John's mental health issues. And thought I know what'll be fun (I said), let's factor some of this into the show. In the comics, it's referenced that John spends a couple of years post-Newcastle bouncing in and out of Ravenscar. Obviously not an option with the Rising Darkness, but those issues will still be a recurrent factor. Hence this fic. Which is not fun. I'm sorry. 
> 
> I enjoy writing angst way too much.

**Consequences of Unmade Decisions**

 

On the third ring, Zed picked up, checking the caller ID and sighing. Chas. What the hell had Constantine done now?

 

“Chas? It's 2:15 in the morning,” she murmured sleepily.

 

“You think I don't know that? Look, I've got a situation over here. John-” Chas' voice cracked and Zed sat up, doubt becoming concern, concern becoming _fear_ _._ “He's had a blip, Zed. It's bad.”

 

“Is he okay?” Zed asked, trying to keep herself calm, to breathe. One of them had to, and judging by how panicked Chas sounded, it was going to have to be her.

 

“Physically? I don't know. He's shut himself in the millhouse and put up all the wards. He won't let me in. He's cranked his music up loud; I think I even heard some Mucous Membrane – his old band – and he only listens to that if he gets- when he gets really low. He's not okay, Zed. How much do you know about what happened after Newcastle?”

 

Zed shrugged, then felt stupid for making a gesture via telephone. “He doesn't talk about it.”

 

“Never forthcoming, is he? He probably wouldn't want you to know, but screw him, he had a breakdown and fell off the grid for months. Turns out he was in hospital. As in -” Chas sighed heavily “You know what I mean.”

 

Zed couldn't say she was particularly surprised. She'd had visions along those lines before, she knew Constantinehad suffered but whenever she tried to broach the topic, he would deflect, distract, talk for hours about whatever stupid thing got her off his case, or simply not talk at all. While there was no-one who could derail a conversation quite like him, there was nobody who could hold their ground and cut themselves off so efficiently either.

 

“You don't mind-” Chas began.

 

Sighing, Zedcursed that crazy Englishman who had ruined her sleep by proxy, and said “I'll be right there, Chas. Don't let him do anything stupid.”

 

“How?”

 

That was a good question. Truth be told, Zed had absolutely no idea but would get in her car anyway and spend the next hour or so driving to the millhouse, where Chas was waiting, parked on the road a little way from the building itself, is sat inside his cab with the radio in a losing competition against the raucous sounds of English punk. He was relieved to see her, getting out of the taxi immediately and going over to talk to her, before she had even parked up.

 

“You weren't kidding,” she said, though she had never thought he was. She knew how much self-destruction John was capable of. Exiting her own vehicle, she moved closer to the house and found herself on the path away, facing the opposite direction and looking back at Chas.

 

“O...K. I knew he could do that, but I thought it didn't affect us.”

 

“He altered the spell. A few days ago.”

 

Fury rose up within Zed; how dare Chas leave it this long?! She told him exactly what she thought about it in a rapid fire mix of English and Spanish.

 

“Look, Zed, I've known John a long time. Usually the best course is to stay out of his way and let him burn himself out. I thought he'd have crashed by now.”

 

“ _Stupido!_ Why'd you even call me, if you know John so well, got him all figured out? What do you need me for?” she raised an eyebrow, and Chas looked at the ground in a reluctant sort of acceptance.

 

“Because,” he said eventually “He listens to you. Sometimes.” Zed looked at him incredulously “I said sometimes.”

 

“More like never,” the psychic snorted “When did you realise something was different, that this time he was -” she didn't want to say 'worse' but it echoed unspoken anyway and she knew Chas had heard the silent implication.

 

“When I heard him yelling incoherent nonsense at nobody and crying,” Chas managed, after a while. It was clearly hard for him to acknowledge or admit to the severity of his friend's problem, having known him for so long. “It reminded me of – I wasn't around at Newcastle but, even before, John was never exactly _stable_ , you know that? He has some sort of mental health issues. Newcastle's just a factor adding to all the other shit he's been through. It made things worse, but it wasn't the start. John's always been a little – _he's not well, Zed. Mentally._ ”

 

Zed nodded. Suspicion confirmed. “I understand,” she said.

 

“I don't think you do,” Chas replied bluntly “No offence intended. You've only known him for the past few months, prior visions discounted. Aside from what happened with Pazuzu, he's been doing surprisingly well. Even after Gary, that was barely his worst. You've not seen how bad it gets, nowhere near. You've never had to clean up after one of his benders, and I'm not talking about when he just gets drunk and slouches around the millhouse feeling sorry for himself, I mean full-on doing nothing but drink for three, four days until the house reeks of vomit and alcohol and sweat. When he's so drunk he doesn't even care that he's run out of cigarettes for the moment and pours himself another without thinking,” Chas was angry with himself, Zed realised, angry that he couldn't help his closest friend. “When we were young, he once stood up on a bridge and had to be talked down, and he just shrugged it off like it was nothing, said there was no point in jumping, that was all. I don't even remember why, now

 

“Point is, Zed, John needs help, more than we can give. But he won't get it because he's too damn stubborn. So we're the second best option. And there's one thing we have to accept: we can't save him.” Judging by the look on Chas' face, he was yet to accept this fact, but believed the more times he repeated it, the truer it would become. He was scared too. He was scared he was right. That John _was_ beyond their help, beyond salvation. Maybe he was, but the easiest way to deal with a worrying thought like that was pretend you'd never had it, lie to yourself and pretend John Constantine still had a soul somewhere.

 

Saving him was another issue entirely.

 

“What do we do now?” Zed asked.

 

“Wait until the song ends?” Chas suggested “Use the break between songs to persuade him to let us in.”

 

“How?” it was Zed's turn to ask.

 

The big man shrugged. “I was hoping you could deal with that. He's not listening to me right now. I've tried. Please?”

 

Rolling her eyes, Zed relented. _Typical._ She was always cleaning up after those two, _always._ What they had done without her...she shuddered. John was bad enough as it stood. She didn't want to think of him alone after Newcastle, slowly drinking himself to oblivion and/or death. A few more minutes of tuneless guitar, then the briefest of silences, the obligatory hesitation between tracks. Chas motioned to Zed, indicating she should speak. Quick. The next song (if it could be called as such) was due soon.

 

“John!” she yelled, loud as she could, thinking on her feet. Dammit. He was the one who was the born bullshitter. “Uh...there's a case come up and we really need your...your contribution, there are people who need our help.”

 

The silence lasted. Unless he'd abruptly exchanged edgy punk for out-of-place artsy minimalism, John must've heard her. He must've paused. Good. He was listening.

 

“Could you...maybe lower the wards so we can come on in and go over the case?” She didn't even call him a crazy bastard, or threaten to hit him with a tyre iron, which was a considerable improvement upon her thoughts. The silence blossomed, becoming altogether ripe and awkward. The two outside exchanged a look. Though she was outwardly trying to mask it, Zed would admit to being more than a little concerned; despite all his warnings not to, she cared deeply about the troubled exorcist and didn't want to see him in a state that would cause pity. He didn't appreciate pity. Or sympathy. Or any expression of feelings from anyone because he was a bitter, cynical little shit who didn't believe he deserved any of it: trust, friendship, loyalty. Everything in his life had told him otherwise, that he was a worthless failure. There was no substantial evidence to the contrary, and that really, really pissed Zed off.

 

She was going to kick his skinny British ass halfway back across the Atlantic if it killed her. Save him from himself, just this once at least. Find that evidence. Why did he deserve their help? Why did he deserve _them_?

 

Because. Because...because no matter how dark it got, you could rely on John to smirk and make some wildly inappropriate quip. It was amazing how he could do that, still cracking jokes even under demonic possession, afraid for his life, even when nobody else could find a funny side. Because there was more to him than bringer of doom in a silly coat, all dead friends and tragedy. He wasn't the awful person he made himself out to be. He cared too much. It wasn't his fault his life had been shit – at least not to begin with anyway, Zed noted, no, now he had become a downspiralling self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

“Dammit John,” she muttered, and took a step forwards. She moved towards the millhouse. Cautiously, she carried on walking, hazarding a few more steps, stopping just outside the door and pushing it, testing whether or not it would give.

 

To her relief and surprise it did. Chas followed close behind, everything about him tense, wound up tight, prepared for any eventuality. At least he could be reassured in knowing John was definitely alive, having turned off the music and dropped the wards.

 

They were in.

 

A wave of nausea hit Zed, sending her swaying unsteadily backwards. Distinct sketches were identifiable – vomit, whiskey, those foul cigarettes, the stale smell of an unwashed human being, the overpowering reek of stupidity. Scattered and strewn all over were books, notes, John's own research on the Rising Darkness, and other papers everywhere, all tangled up in some paranoid's idea of an organisation system.

 

“ _Dios m_ _í_ _o,_ ” Zed murmured. _What the hell, what the actual_ _fuck_ _?_ Every surface, walls, floors, the stairs, cogs and wheels of the mill, even the bookshelves which should have had books instead were occupied by stray bottles and empty cigarette cartons punctuating the otherwise literary mess. Zed was more than a little offended on behalf of bibliophiles everywhere at the spilled whiskey all down an otherwise beautiful, weighty tome.

 

“John,” she proffered, her voice quavering. She was more worried than she had thought possible. And angry. Who was going to tidy this mess up? Not John. And not her either, that was for damn certain. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chas moving through the wreckage with a degree of familiarity, stepping gingerly over piles of books and progressing from point A to point B quickly, that second point being wherever they could find John, his eyes scanning furtively for a sign of his friend, _their_ friend. Zed made to follow when a sound behind her stopped her immediately. Swivelling, she saw a hunched and shadowy figure sliding the bolts swiftly across the door, raising a pale arm to chant some incoherent spell, presumably the one to put the wards back up. Slowly the dishevelled figure turned and Zed felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck as she was transfixed by a dark, lethal glare. Constantine's eyes were in shadow, but she could see the red criss-crossing them, the exhaustion that slowed his movements and, combined with the alcohol he had imbued, left him teetering slightly. His expression was borderline murderous. Unconsciously, Zed backed away from the approaching figure, heading towards Chas, to safety. Then she decided, to hell with it, she was going to tackle this problem head-on. Taking a step forwards, she met his hollow eyes and folded her arms.

 

John blinked rapidly, confused. With an unused, hoarse voice, more heavily accented than usual, he spoke “Zed. Whassa matter luv, y'look like y've seen a ghost,” he laughed darkly, but when he was met with nothing but hostile looks he tried to straighten up, setting his shoulders back, assuming an approximation of his usual arrogant posture, squaring himself off against Zed in petty competition. Chas clenched his fists, ready to intervene if anything went wrong. “Y'said there was a...a case, like.”

 

“Yeah? I lied.” Zed shrugged “Learned from the best.”

 

John tittered “Good one, tha' is. Nice to know I've been useful for summat. Alright Chas?” he grinned, but it felt forced and then there he was, laughing again. And then it wasn't laughter, as he finished staggering down the stairs and sank into the sofa, curling up into a ball, muffled sobs escaping. Then laughter again as he unfurled himself, nasty, awful laughter. “Din't I ask you for some fags, the other day, din't I?”

 

Zed stared at Chas in confusion and the big man explained “British word for cigarettes. No idea where it came from.” To John; “Yes, you did. A week ago.”

 

“And?” Constantine reached out a demanding hand “Bring 'em?” Sighing, Chas threw him the packet and John beamed. There was something vacant behind his eyes, more than just inebriation. Something caged. Chas was dealing with this with an air of inevitability, like he had been waiting for this to happen for a long time. He exchanged a look with Zed, and she saw the pain in his eyes as he handed John his lighter from the end table, and then set about in grim, drawn silence, picking up the pieces, sifting through the mess.

 

“So,” Zed tried to make eye contact with John, but he was avoiding her gaze, staring off at nothing. “Someone's been busy.”

 

Saying nothing, the exorcist took a drag from his cigarette. On the other side of the room, Chas was pretending to be distracted with tidying up but you could see it in the tautness of his shoulders, barely disguised venom coursing through him. His fists clenched and unclenched, and you could see he really, really wanted to punch John. You didn't need to be psychic to figure _ that _out.

 

On the topic of psychic giftings, and Zed knew this was definitely a bad idea, but if she didn't, John would somehow manage to turn the conversation into banter and they would never get anywhere, going around and around in circles. Or he would sit there sullenly in silence, unspeaking, _or_ just outrightly tell them to piss off. And that would get them nowhere. Her plan was unreliable; it had never worked before, when she had touched John she had received no visions through physical contact, he was normally too guarded, immune to psychic interference. In fact, her visions of him had slowed since their meeting, coming under control as she learnt to understand something of her powers. There was no guarantee this would work, and anyway, even if it did, the physical and emotional toll would be agonising. _No magic is without cost_ , she thought, reaching out compulsively and touching John's hand while his defences were down.

 

A shock of electricity rushed through her. Fleeting images, white hospital walls surrounding her, then a sudden change of tracks – God! - all around her were hell's fires, a little girl crying, a bloody room and half an arm. Further back now, she tasted his moments of arrogance and glory on stage, as he thrived on the malleable audience. Way back, excruciating images flashing before her eyes, awful things she couldn't put words to without tearing up, things she would never have associated with the swaggering confidence artist she thought she knew...

 

_but you couldn't, could you, you couldn't really know John Constantine, he kept so much pain concealed and lied his way through life and you were never shown the truth until you saw through him, until you saw a memory of a teenager, a vulnerable kid, on the way down to London alone – he couldn't have been more than sixteen – and what happened next, it hurt so much, but you couldn't think of it because it had hurt so much _

 

...all the way back to a council house (was that what it was called? How did she know that phrase? She'd never heard it before) where the walls rang with arguments and a little boy with fair hair cried as his father hit him, while his sister fled the house and sought refuge in older boys' beds. Then the boy looked up and his eyes were full of defiance and hatred, and Zed felt it all. He would never surrender, would choose destruction over relenting. Would destroy himself rather than be controlled.

 

With a jerk, Zed snapped out of submersion, the vision sapping her strength and leaving her trembling and queasy. Looking up, she saw Chas standing over her, somehow strangely soothing. In the background, John was pacing furiously. His face was identical to the child's in her vision, albeit changed with age. Inflexible. _Sulky._ Concern briefly flashed on his face, then he quelled it, folding his arms stubbornly and turning away. He was annoyed with her. _Now he knew the feeling._

 

“You okay?” Chas asked quietly. John snorted and the big man glared at his friend.

 

“Shouldn't've looked,” the exorcist said adamantly “'s her own fault.”

 

“I'm right here,” Zed retorted “You want to bitch about me, at least wait until I'm out of the room.”

 

The fair-haired man ignored her and resumed pacing. Chas sighed and finally decided it was time to intervene, blocking his friend's path, an immovable wall. “Zed shouldn't've invaded your privacy, that was wrong, not to mention dangerous,” he shot Zed a look “But _ this _ _,_ ” Swinging his arm, he indicated the disaster zone surrounding them “This is something else. You can't let it get to this and not mention something. When I left on Monday, there was nothing. You told me to pick up some 'cigs' while I was out. You seemed okay! But no, I get back, and surprise surprise, look at what you've done you massive fucking child! I thought you were doing well, aside from what happened in Mexico and even that I could explain, I knew how and why – there was a cause and effect. This is just you, bored and with nothing better to do than hurl yourself into this latest screw-up because that's what you do best, isn't it?” All Chas' anger had come spilling out, the frustration which was normally buried so deep, all that infuriation with his best friend, kept pent up out of a bizarre sort of respect; it was all unleashed in an uncharacteristic tirade. “What was it this time? Some girl reject you?” John said nothing, staring at the floor abashedly “A guy? What happened, John?”

 

A tiny, fractional smile flickered for a moment on John's face. “We're all goin' to die, Chas. Risin' Darkness, that bollocks. Manny says what we're doin's workin', but forgive me if I'm a bit sceptical of what that feathery tosser says. We can't delay the inevitable. There's you – a bloody cab driver, with thirty-odd lives to go, an' once they're used up, that's you over an' done with. An' you-” he cast a sidelong glance at Zed “Psychic with an oh-so-mysterious past and a bloody brain tumour. I can see the Brujeria quakin' in their kinky stripper boots. An' me.” He went quiet. “You've already covered what a fuck-up I am, Chas, thanks mate, an' thanks to person'ly invasive psychic powers, you can get together and have a proper laugh at my infinite mistakes. Both of you know it, deep down. Me, I can't save the world. Thassa laugh, innit? Couldn't save Astra. Final proof I'm a useless git right here, always have been, always will be. So yeah, all goin' to die, doomed as Frosty the Snowman in Hell, choirboy in the Vatican, Julius Caesar on the Ides of _ Stab _ _._ ” He shrugged aimlessly “You asked.”

 

“Jesus,” was all Chas could say, his rage subsiding, turning to worry once more “Nice to know our chances. Really puts things into perspective,” he said sarcastically “You think next time you could tell us that instead as-”

 

“Oh, sod off Chas!” John snapped “Fine, I won't do it again, pinky swear.” He held out his hand, little finger extended and smiled mockingly. Chas glared and turned away, resuming his sullen clean-up of the millhouse.

 

On his way he checked in on Zed. “Talk to him,” he insisted, pointing at John, then stormed off.

 

Zed looked up at the still-pacing idiot and waited until he slowed, seeming less manic and therefore less likely to hurl abuse at her.

 

As soon as she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off “You get a fun little tour around my psyche, then? See anythin' incriminatin'?” He was probing for information, all the while feigning casual disinterest.

 

Thinking back, Zed remembered how raw, how searing all that pain had felt, how he felt that all the time. She couldn't let him know that she knew the full extent of his fear. How scared he always was. No doubt he already knew this, but would keep up the charade of pretending to be okay, his own pride getting in the way.

 

“Just stuff. Images. Nothing you need to worry about me having nightmares over.” She wasn't sure if he believed her, probably not, but neither of them wanted to delve into the real issues.

 

“Did you see-?” he asked, his voice quiet and uncertain, Newcastle hanging unsaid in the air between them.

 

“I didn't see anything clearly. I think...probably. It was all a blur,” she lied. “I'm sorry.”

 

“Don't be, luv. Wasn't on you. 'f you saw it, you know it's my mistake. See anything else?” he inquired nervously.

 

Zed thought about her answer carefully, then shook her head. “Nothing concrete.”

 

For a moment, John looked ready to argue, but decided against it, collapsing with exhaustion to the chair. Had he been anyone else, he would have gone to bed a long time ago; he was barely able to stand. But John, dammit, he was insufferable, he would never give up if it made sense for him to. Conversely, when things were going okay, it was time to implode and try to damage as much of the world around you via the domino effect.

 

“Listen, Zed, don't let it get t'you. I don't need a nice, reassurin' hug, I don't need your pity. Best if we don't mention any of it again, 'specially not to Chas, don't tell him, right?” _Don't tell him how bad I always feel, how much I hate myself_ the not-very-well-hidden implication said _don't tell him. Please._ Chas knew John better than anyone else, he wouldn't be fooled. He deserved answers. Most of them he no doubt knew already, but it was treated like classified information, subject to confidentiality agreements and able to be denied whenever it invariably came up, thanks to _ somebody's _ emotional incapability to allow himself help.

 

He couldn't be saved.

 

Because you looked at him and saw him, when those psychic blocks slipped. And you saw what he was underneath the swagger and the trenchcoat and the smirking arrogance, the cigarettes and sarcasm, the bitter cynicism, all of it slipped away and there he was, there he _ really _ was, the scared little child, the fear, the vengeful wrath and uncompromising, fixed, tenacity. You saw that child still in there, from the tiniest expression on his face to the caged pacing and you couldn't reach in and help him because he was John Constantine, and so the moment you saw that flicker of vulnerability, it self-consciously snuffed itself out and he promptly vomited on the floor and passed out in quick succession.

 

“Idiot,” muttered Zed, manoeuvring him to the sofa without incident, pulling a face as she stepped over the foul puddle. At the sound of John tumbling from the chair to the floor, Chas had re-entered the room and Zed turned to him hopelessly. “What do we do, Chas?”

 

The big man shrugged, looking everywhere but John. “I don't know. I really don't know. Honestly? He should never have left Ravenscar. Checked himself out about a year ago to fight the Rising Darkness but he wasn't – he's running away from his problems and it's killing him. And that's no exaggeration. While you were out, after you touched him, I mean, that was pretty bad. What do I think? I think, if the Rising Darkness wasn't occupying every hour of every day, we should call his sister Cheryl and send him back to familiarity, where _ someone _ can handle him. If the world wasn't ending, I'd say he should go back to Ravenscar. That's what I think.” Chas headed towards the kitchen to get a cloth and clean the floor.

 

“I'll do it,” Zed said, leaving Chas with his friend.

 

“Thanks,” he replied gratefully.

 

“No problem,” Zed was lying through her teeth. There was a massive, irresolvable problem. They couldn't save John.

 

In the kitchen, Zed stifled tears and wiped her eyes.

 

They couldn't save John without sacrificing god only knew how many people to the Rising Darkness. Potentially, _ everyone _.

 

For the sake of the world, they had to make a decision and let their friend drive himself to the edge, _ beyond _ the edge, until the edge was a distant, fleeting memory on a receding horizon. It was an unspoken agreement, a decision neither of them had consciously made, never confirmed out loud, never broached or discussed. It was something both of them knew, a truth inherent in itself.

 

They couldn't save John Constantine.

 

Not without stabbing a knife into the back of everyone else. And even if the world continued to turn, he wouldn't thank them for it. In fact, he would never speak to them again.

 

Decisions, decisions.

 

There was no decision.

 

Only the end result; _ this _.


End file.
